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THE LAST 01 THE PLANTAGENETS: 



A TRA&I C D RAMA, 



In GL\)tez &ct0. 



BY CAROLINE M. KETELTAS. 



FOUNDED ON THE ROMANCE OF THAT NAME, 

BY WILLIAM HESELTINE, 

OF TURRET HOUSE, SOUTH LAMBETH, ENGLAND. 
THE DRAMA WAS WRITTEN IN 183-0. 

NEW YORK: 
PRINTED BY R. CRAIGHEAD, 112 FULTON STREET 

PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

MDCCCXLIV. 



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THE LAST OP THE PLAITAGENETE 



A TRAGIC D RAMA, 



Stt &i)m &rts. 



M. KETELTAS. 



FOUNDED ON THE ROMANCE OF THAT NAME, 

BY WILLIAM HESELTINE, 

OF TURRET HOUSE, SOUTH LAMBETH, ENGLAND. 



THE DRAMA WAS WRITTEN IN 1830. 

NEW YORK ; 
PRINTED BY R. CRAIGHEAD, 112 FULTON STREET. 

PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

S^X MDCCCXLIV^ j- 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

CAROLINE M. KETELTAS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 






PREFACE TO THE DRAMA. 



The author of the following dramatic sketch has been 
induced (although the term may seem a strange one), to 
minds wedded to the popular opinions of Richard Third's 
character ; from a Christian motive, to endeavor to rescue 
it from some of the odium which now rests upon it : thus, 
somewhat aiding the research, and amiable idea of Mr. 
Heseltine in his very interesting romance, " The Last of 
the Plantagenets." The anathema of Shakspeare, on him 
who should touch his ashes, would seem, at the first 
view, to apply with equal force to his writings ; but 
Shakspeare, though the first of geniuses, was a mortal ; 
therefore, liable to error and prejudice. Historians differ 
in their estimate and catalogue of Richard's crimes ; and 
experience of the human heart, its strange mixture of good 
and evil ; its generous throb ; its cold or dark intent, 
moving it simultaneously, would preclude the possibility, 
that such a monster as Richard Third, ever existed, 
and why stands he in crime thus branded and alone ? 
Henry Eighth, for instance, what plea had he to urge for 
murders, cruel and unjust 1 None. With regard to the 



authenticity of the existence of such a person as Richard 
Plantagenet, son of Richard Third, Mr. Heseltine offers 
nothing, but that manuscripts were found in some old 
castle, setting forth that such a person lived, and sustained 
a life of obscurity, by manual labor. There is nothing 
impossible in the statement ; but as Mr. Heseltine clothes 
his hero with romance, your dramatist may be allowed the 
same privilege. 

New York, November, 1844. 



( 



PROLOGUE. 



(SPOKEN BY RICHARD PLANTAGENET. ) 

A Statue, or Bust of Shakspeare, is seen, to which Richard 
kneels, saying : 

Pardon ! blest shade ! that step of mine should dare 

To tread — where imprints of thy footsteps are — 

I tremble — falter — yet a whisper hear — 

"Thought, is Heaven's gift, — and never should know 

fear"— 
Thanks ! noble shade ! so vast thy wond'rous mind — 
Could doubt, one moment so my judgment blind 1 
As even to dream — thou Mst not extend thy hand, 
Warm with each impulse of thy nature bland, 
Unto Prince Richard — bid him the shame forget, 
His sire bequeathed — " The Last Plantagenet," 

And live he will, till Time shall cease to be — 

Inspired ! Shakspeare ! worshipping of Thee ! 

[Richard rises, and addresses the audience and stage. 

Ye ! who have opened Nature's teeming page, 
And given the readings of a long passed age, 
Blent with the notes of ages more refined — 
Though not with choicer visions of the mind — 



Here rest ! the memory of your touching " Lear," 

Your " Fair Ophelia" — " Juliet," ever dear ; 

Byron's frail " Werner" in Macready's vein, 

Kean ! Forrest ! Kemble ! Tree ! and Payne ! 

Sweet, sweet the tears, we gave your noble art ! 

"Which aims to touch, to soothe, to mend the heart. 

In Greece, the Muses' and bright Freedom's home, 

Arose the Drama's sky-roofed, star-lit Dome — 

And on its altars burned the Attic glow 

Her bards awoke — two thousand years ago : 

The incense claimed Susarion's mirthful name, 

And Thespis' tears, both fed the deathless flame ! 

Thus, not alone to Thee sublime in wo, 

Melpomene, must we the Wreath bestow — 

Thalia claims an equal title here — 

For joyous Laugh — as thy subduing Tear — 

And Memory lingers — in a fond review 

Of those who gave (the Comic Mask) so true; 

Or held alike, the Mirror to the mind ; 

With caustic wit, or sentiment refined — 

Here Placide stood — the monarch on his Throne, 

And Clara Fisher was herself alone. 

May here, the Mimic Art, to Nature true, 

Reflect the traits, her Bards have called to view — 

Awake their Harp, to lash the bold and vain, 

Soothe, with its pathos, poverty, and pain, 

Bring back the rose, to cheeks that Love has paled, 

And give to Glory, all its armor mailed. 

Severe their task, to satisfaction give, 

Who, on the changing tide of favor live — 

But if success should crown the Actor's days — 

How blest ! Life's Curtain falls — that falls, 'mid Praise. 



CHARACTERS OF THE DRAMA. 



Richard Third, (King of England.) 

Richard, (his Son, by a private marriage.) 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Earl of Surrey, (his Son.) 

Sir Gilbert De Mountford. 

v t I Pursuivant at Arms, (called Le Blanc 

) Sanglier.) 
Roger Walkelyn, (Superior of St. Mary's Priory.) 
Jankin Stoup, (Master of the Hostel Le Blanc Sanglier.) 
Eugenio, (Page to King Richard.) 



Earl of Richmond, j ( ^rwards Henry Seventh of 

Earl of Pembroke, (his Uncle.) 

Earl of Oxford. 

Lord Stanley. 

Sir William Stanley. 

Sir William BrandonJ (Standard Bearer to Earl of 
') Richmond.) 

Sir Reginald Brat, |(* h f o J, tk Crown on 

Abbot of Bermondsey. 

Monks, Nuns, Soldiers, Citizens, Attendants, &c. &c. 



Queen Elizabeth, (widow Edward Fourth of England.) 
Princess Elizabeth, (her Daughter.) 
Bridget, (the Lady Bride, (her Daughter.) 
Sibyl. 



ACT L— Scene r. 



MILFORD HAVEN. VIEW OF SHIPPING, ETC., ETC. 

Enter Earl of Richmond, Pembroke, Oxford, Brandon, 
Bray. 

Richmond. My faithful friends ! this Milford Haven's 
sure a haven blest ; which holds such hearts, as now 
come forth, to greet a wanderer like me. 

Brandon. Those hearts, too long oppressed, now 
seek in you, the one whom heaven has sent as their 
deliverer. 

Bray. In pious England, famed for faith and monks, 
a voice from heaven most surely must be heard ; and 
mine responds its tone. 

Oxford. And mine, though now I may not say how 
well the Earl of Richmond merits that we have to give 
— a Crown. 

Richmond. He has no words for so much trust, but 
should his Arms, uphold his gratitude, King Henry never 
will forget this hour. 

Pembroke. Nephew, time will show, how true, or 
false, our honeyed words, which now have breath — my 
hope is full ; meantime I lead to some refreshment, after 
perils dire, by sea, and perils yet to come, by land. My 
Lords ! my mansion opes its doors for you. 



10 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Richmond. And there we'll drink to good king 
Richard's health ! and his fair niece, the Rose of York ! 
[Exeunt Richmond, &c, 



SCENE SECOND. 

Distant view of a Convent. Monks and Nuns cross the 
back part of the Stage, bearing a bier, and chanting. 

Rest thee ; rest thee ; sister kind ! 

Though we bear thy form to earth, 
Thou wilt soon the waking find — 

Promised to the second birth. Ave Maria ! 

Lovely flower ! of early blow — 

Free from stain, thou'st passed away — 
We, who yet, must sorrow know — 
Weep, we cannot trace thy way. Ave Maria \ 

[The Procession passes off. Walkelyn and Richard remain. 

Walkelyn. You are strangely moved, my son, tell 
your fond Walkelyn, whence the cause — 

Richard. Did you not see her, father ? 

Walkelyn. Aye ! and she was fair ; death is sad to 
view, when the young heart is full of life ! 

Richard. I do not mean our sister dead, but she — 

Walkelyn. Whom do you mean ? 

Richard. Bridget, in the white robes of a Novice. 

Walkelyn. Bridget ? 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 11 

Richard. Yes, the sweet angel of my dreams ! with 
eyes, blue as yon chamber in the sky ; tresses, like to the 
fleece of the young lambs, and step of a young queen — 
she who calls to me each night, " Richard ! come to play I" 

Walkelyn. You have strong memories, Richard, tell 
me, my gentle son, how far they reach unto the past — 
tell your Walkelyn, all that joys or grieves your heart. 

Richard. I cannot tell — I count but seventeen years, 
and yet I seem quite old in memory — there are upon its 
tablet graved forms that are dear, and others that seem 
strange to me. One comes to me, like her we bury now 
— her voice is sweet, and says, farewell ! there is a war- 
rior, too, a dazzling robe he wore, and (shuddering) there 
is a dark, dark woman, that did frown upon me, and 
chide dear Bridget, for loving me so well — explain these 
memories to me, dear, dear Walkelyn ! 

Walkelyn. (Much moved and agitated.) I may not 
now, but come, the funeral train will miss our presence. 

Richard. Oh ! let us haste to join it ; Bridget, per- 
haps, will speak to me — 
■haps 
[Walkelyn and Richard pass off. 



SCENE THIRD THE PALACE. 

King and De Mountford. 

King. And Harry Richmond, then, now dwells in 
British hearts ? 

De Mountford. So will the Fates. 



]2 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

King. Fate is the coward's doom, how stands our 
force ? 

De Mountford. Why, strong, as yet, most names of 
weight are ours. 

King. Most names! the fickle knaves; they know 
me not ! and thinking that they do, give unto Richard's 
name, deeds, that he wots not of; they reason with their 
own bad natures, and scant want of sense, that as no 
reptile comes without its mate, so Richard, not yet ripe, 
'tis true ; for heaven must count his murders, as he 

would his beads to-morrow, we will meet in council, 

go you among the people, good De Mountford, and tell 
men they are true, though knowing them all false ! — is 't 
not a pity, and a sin, Gilbert De Mountford, that these 
saints should change their creed at pleasure ? to-day, 
shout Richard ! and the next, Harry of Lancaster ! but, 
by Plantagenet ! our Harry Second, culled in the Holy 
Land, and made to blossom in the House of York, I, now 
its head ; I'll send this upstart sprig of royalty to find a 
Crown, within another w T orld. 

Be Mountford. My duty's always for my Sovereign 
King. 

King. I know it, good Sir Gilbert — then u{V! and 
still be doing for him — the spider, have you never mark- 
ed, thinks that she spins unseen, untouched, her beamless 
house, an adverse wind, a knife like this (King draws 
his sword) scatters it to nought ! Go, good Sir Gilbert, 
and information gather how madam worm proceeds in 
her fine web. 

[Exit De Mountford. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 13 

King. Chary of words ! I fear me you are like the 
rest — " my duty's always for my Sovereign King," as 
such I trust it long will be King Richard's. I'll go to 
sound the widow queen, for though she hates this twig of 
Lancaster's reviving tree, her weeds hang cumbrous 
round her heart, where wasted power still prays upon its 
core ; there is a yesty quality within these Woodvilles, 
that fain would leaven the whole land, and she consume 
its loaf. Elizabeth remains unto the House of York — 
she is my niece — what would the Abbot good of Ber- 
mondsey declare if I should wed her Anathema ! But I 
would w T hisper in his ear, that my loved Clara, my angel 
wife ! most strangely died — her close attendants but him- 
self and lady queen. I'll woo Elizabeth, although a sin 
unto the holy ones, who kill for conscience sake, and fill 
their coffers, should all others starve — should I fail there, 
my son, blossom ! of her who scorned me not, that na- 
ture made me not fair in feature, and in form, as her 
sweet self; shall now come forth, and should I fall, 
within the coming strife — rise a young Phoenix ! from 
his Sire's ashes, Richard the Fourth. Ha ! ha ! These 
Woodvilles ! 

[Exit King. 



SCENE FOURTH A ROYAL APARTMENT. 

Princess Elizabeth on a Couch. A voice is heard, accom- 
panying a Guitar. 

Earth teems with flowers, fair to sight, 
And bloom, and breath of heaven ! 






14 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

But England's Rose ! of peerless white, 
The queen of flowers ! hath Flora given, 

Lady love ! 

Knights of valor at thy feet 
Lay their lance, and reckless thought 
My faithful heart, I pray thou greet — 
Some laurels, from a far-land brought, 

Lady love ! 

Elizabeth. Some love-sick minstrel chants his lay, in 
these rough times, 'tis sweet to wander back to bright ro- 
mance, the Troubadour, and love, which since the time of 
him, " The Lion Heart," has been forgot with us — ah ! 
Berengaria, a happy fate was thine ! yet no ! too much 
of war, drowned the soft note of song. 

Enter Queen Elizabeth. 

Queen. What sound like minstrelsy, was that I 
heard ? I fear some foolish thought is in your heart, like 
unto Bridget's, who can ne'er forget the childish days she 
passed with that dead boy, some think the Crook-back's 
son. 

Elizabeth. I've read of such a thing as love, but, 
gentle mother, you have ta'en good care its accents 
sweet should never reach my ear — no, I am doomed to 
wed, and patch a crown, so worn and dimmed with blood, 
no gem is seen ; if my good Uncle will but take the 
shred, and eke it out with my poor thread of life — so 
runs your plan — but are you sure, Richard, the boy, is 
dead? 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 15 

Queen. All say he is. 

Elizabeth. Hum ! Tout le monde ! et son femme ! 

Queen. (Confused.) I chided all too soon — but I 
am over-anxious for your fate, Elizabeth. Did not the 
minstrel speak of foreign lands'? perhaps he was the 
Earl of Richmond ? You know he is in England ? 

Enter Abbot of Bermondsey. 

Abbot. Within, your pardon, lady ! your ear upon 
the instant — much, much of import I have there to 
pour — 

Queen. Await me in my oratory ! 

[Exit Abbot. 

Queen. Be reasonable, Elizabeth — your father was 
a king ; the Tower still opens for the heart that will not 
bend — 

Elizabeth. Stained with the blood of my sweet 
brothers — would'st send me there 1 

Queen. No, no, I did but jest — go to your chamber, 
while I seek our Holy Father. 

[Exeunt Queen and Elizabeth. 



SCENE FIFTH A STREET IN LONDON. 

Enter Lord Stanley, Sir William Stanley, and Citizens. 

Lord Stanley. My friends! the times call forth a 
voice that now should speak; too long has he, who 
feigning, boasts of truth, upheld this realm ; dark acts 

2 



16 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

of guilt appal our souls ! and bid us seek another hand 
to guide ; which, if it hold not that we wish, at least 
will for a time, suspend our shame. 

Sir Wm. Stanley. A shame that rests upon our- 
selves, and history will hand to ages down. 

First Citizen. Men differ widely in their view of this 
— what are the crimes that call for vengeance ; princes 
have died, 'tis true, but who can say that was the hand 
which sent them to their reckoning ? 

Second Citizen. Another cries usurper! while he 
they would should fill his place, claims no fair title to a 
vacant throne. 

Lord Stanley. The cause is heaven's and chill delay 
in showing that it is, shows hearts of fear ! Long live 
Henry Seventh ! 

Enter other Citizens. 

Citizens. Long live Henry Seventh ! 

First Citizens. Let's see this new pretender to a 
crown — 

Lord Stanley. He waits to meet his friends. Come 
friends and welcome Harry Richmond to Old England ! 

Second Citizens. Old England ! and its Harry 
Seventh ! 

[Exeunt the Stanleys and Citizens. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 17 



SCENE SIXTH GARDEN OF A CONVENT MOONLIGHT. 

Richard and the Lady Bride. 

Richard. And could they be so cruel, dearest Bridget, 
as part us now, now that we've met again, now that our 
childish love has ripened into all love's beauty, by know- 
ledge and by reason — young birds we were, dwelling 
within one nest, fed from one bill, blest, blest ! we were 
— but now we've wings — shall we not fly ? fly, dearest 
Bridget, from these cruel ones ! 

Bridget. I am the Lady Bride; fly, we could not, 
from man ; and dearest ! would you have me fly from 
heaven ? 

Richard. Bridget ! thy eyes are the blue heaven to 
which I've knelt, and prayed, as the pure angel who 
should lead my sinful heart unto its Maker; though 
Walkelyn thought he shrived an almost sinless soul — and 
said, " not for thy sin, my son," who then has sinned 
more than myself ? know you, Bridget. 

Bridget. (Weeping.) I may not say. 

Richard. Thus, thus I'm ever answered — tell me ? 
dear Bridget, if you know — who am I ? 

Bridget. I'm taught to think, the son of one whose 
hand has doomed my house to death. 

Richard. Then I am not his son, for I would give my 
poor, poor life, to bring it once more into being. But 
you speak riddles to me, Bridget. I was an infant when 
we parted ; and ten years in a monastery's shade has 
given me nothing of the world's employments. Aye ! I 



18 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

can have no place there, wrapped in the mystery that I 
am. 

Bridget. That world believes you dead. 

Richard. And why % 

Bridget. My answer, dearest, would betray my pro- 
mise to my mother, and, perhaps, bring wo, nay death 
upon our head. One ! only one can aid us, Richard, in 
our great despair — my every thought of love is thine ! be 
patient. 

Richard. Who is your Mother, Bridget ? 

Bridget. Elizabeth ! late Queen of England ! 

Richard. The wife of him whom Richard murdered. 

Bridget. (Covering her face with her veil.) Curse ! 
curse him not ! he is my uncle 



[Convent bell rings for Vespers, Richard remains in stupor 
and silence. 

Farewell ! dear Richard — much too long I've staid \ 
Richard ! hear you not steps 1 Away ! away ! 

[Exit the Lady Bride. 

Richard. Bridget ! ha ! gone, beloved ? where have 
my senses wandered ? but I will live no longer in this 
sad unknowingness of what I am — -Walkelyn shall tell 
— and yet Bridget a princess ! this knowledge gained, 
may show a wider, ruder sea, than yet has rolled between 
us (Richard extends his arms towards the convent.) 
Farewell ! dear Bridget ! if J have a name, its power 
shall tear you from yon iron walls. 

[Exit Richard, 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 19 



SCENE SEVENTH PEMBROKE HALL. 

Earl of Richmond. 

Richmond. Fly ! fly. ye hours ! which bring me to 
the day, whose close, I trust will see the Rose of Lan- 
caster once more wreathed round the crown of England ; 
'tis true, the Princess, if kind unto my suit, must blend 
the hated one of York. She yet denies me access to her 
favor, and courtesy but small she'll have from me, if I'm 
her husband ; she, so reluctantly, my wife ; these ton- 
sured monks, too short time they'll have to drain the 

purses of the land, when I am king 

[Enter Earl of Oxford. 
I greet your presence ! what omens hover for King 
Henry 1 

Oxford. Many, many, nay, all bids fair for your suc- 
cess, my Lord, the Stanleys are your own, there's much 
revolt among the people ; whispers, that many of King 
Richard's friends, thus far, desire a change ; I, at the 
least, doubt not the Field of Bos worth holds a crown for 
you. 

Richmond. God speed and bless the issue ! And now 
unto a gentler theme, the fair Elizabeth; deigns she, at 
last, to see her minstrel knight ? ha ! ha ! we made but 
slight escape, the first time that we wooed in song ; fine 
theme it would have been for Richard's wit, if we'd been 
trapped a singing to our " Lady Love." 

Oxford. The Lady Queen is busy with the maiden's 
heart, and your desert ; the Princess is most sad, just 
now, at parting from the Lady Bride her sister destined 
2* 



20 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

for heaven (through the cloister), most sweetly says, 
Bermondsey's proud Abbot, some tongues say other- 
wise : that Richard, our dear king, once found a maiden 
who o'erlooked his want of charms, and gave to him a 
son, who in his infancy was cradled, happened how 
it did, ev'n with this Lady Bride, and that her mother 
thinking she saw a love between them, that in future 
years might trouble her rich brain, had Bridget trained 
within a Convent, and now its Abbot claims her as his 
own. 

Richmond. Does the boy live ? 

Oxford. Some say he does, some not, it would seem 
strange, if living, that his father thus keeps him out of 
view, but then he knows the hatred of the queen unto 
the boy ; why so strong none guess. • s 

Richmond. It had been as well, if this poor boy had 
ne'er been born. 

Oxford. Should you wish so, my lord, I'll seek what 
information I may get upon that head. 

Richmond. Ha ! ha ! ha ! not so bad ; but we will 
seek my uncle, his head is older and much wiser than my 
own \ Allons ! my lord. 

[Exeunt Richmond and Oxford, 



SCENE EIGHTH A CONVENT PARLOR. 

Princess Elizabeth and Lady Bride. 

Elizabeth. Both, both are doomed, you to a convent's 
gloom, and I, perhaps, a deeper gloom, that of wedded 
life, without affection ; peace will, at least, be yours. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 21 

Lady Bride. No, no, my vow will be a mockery to 
heaven ! (She covers her face with her veil.) Sister ! 
I've met him once again, more beautiful he is tnan words 
could paint, and gifted as he's beautiful ; Richard ! my 
childhood's tender playmate, we love ! 

Elizabeth. Ha ! where did you meet 1 

Lady Bride. Upon that journey for my health, we 
met ; he has been with the good Prior of St. Mary's 
Brotherhood since our young hearts were severed : he 
knows not of his birth. I have one hope remaining; 
rumor has reached me that the Earl of Richmond has 
small faith in monks and holy houses ; whispers have 
met my ear that this great haste in having me professed, 
moves to that issue. Richmond once king, and your fond 
husband, might set aside my mother's dark intent, to bury 
me while living. 

Elizabeth. Ah ! dearest one ! you reason with hope's 
argument ; no doubt the knowledge that poor Richard 
lives, your mutual love revealed, would only speed the 
thought of closing you within these walls for ever, 
and give him to death ; neither the Queen, nor Ber- 
mondsey would hesitate at either deed. One only hope 
remains, the king may conquer in the coming struggle; 
but could you, dearest, wed with Richard, son of him, 
they say, dyed his foul hands with our dear father's 
and our brother's blood 1 

Lady Bride. He did it not ; or, if he did, Richard's 
no son of his ; so pure, so noble is he, he must be all his 
mother ; no trait of mind or person is King Richard's. 
Who ! who could have been that mother 1 



22 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Enter Nun. 

JVun. {To Elizabeth.) Lady, your carriage waits. 

[Exit 

Lady Bride. Go my beloved, be happy if you may ; 
your noble brow and mind of power were formed to grace 
a throne ; yes, yes, the Sibyl's sight was true. " You 
are to blend the factious Roses," enough for me love's 
Bower ! — pray to our mother, that she yield me yet some 
time before I take my vows — tell her my soul is not pre- 
pared to meet its God ! — tell her to wander back to girl- 
ish years, when love was all her thought — how that the 
noble youth, Earl Grey, wooed and won her hand — tell 
her her future fate was on a Throne and given her by my 
father — tell her to pity me, she dooms to solitude and 
death. 

Elizabeth. You break my heart. 

Lady Bride. Farewell, farewell. 

[The Sisters embrace and exit at opposite sides. 



SCENE NINTH A STREET {night) SENTRY ON GUARD. 

Sentry. Tis sure a piteous night ! more dark and 
chill than w r ell becomes the season, and the harvest 
moon ; hold ! the Countersign ! 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 23 

Enter second Sentry. 

Second Sentry. Richard ! 

First Sentry. Richard ! and welcome to the Post ! 
I'm weary of it, something is wrong within, or 'tis the 
cause without. I wish that Kings w T ould lie in quiet 
beds, or let the ones that like them, find repose. 

Second Sentry. Ah ! comrade ! as the sailors say, 
" lies the wind in that sweet quarter," but the Glory that 
the mighty kings and conquerors of earth, give unto us, 
its herd, you pass — they cannot sleep, we must not 
sleep, see you not there a balance true 1 

First Sentry. Then let them wake ! one man inherits 
a bright crown — another steals it from him — and soon 
there comes another, saying give it me — he is a thief ! 
you call your King — yes I yes ! the knaves ! they all 
love crowns ! but slow they are to give a crown ! I've 
those at home who want my pence; and duty calls me 

there. 

[Exit suddenly. 

Second Sentry. Old Jack speaks sense — {looks 
around) — King Richard, take my Post — I too will seek a 
Crown ! and find if Harry Richmond holds the key to 
hearts. 

[Sentry passes out. 

Enter De Mountford. 

De Mountford. What ho ! Guard ! all silent ? 
Treachery's abroad— bad omen ! for King Richard. 

[Exit De Mountford. 

END OF THE FIRST ACT, 



24 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENES. 



ACT II.— Scene i. 



A Parlor. Walkelyn and RrcHARD. 

Walkelyn. My child, but no, you have outlived the 
child, and feel within your soul a man's full strength, if 
my fond wish and that of him who loves you well, 
should call it forth. Oft as you've asked the history of 
your life, my promise made unto your guardian ten years 
since, did not permit me to reveal it to you — nor can I 
yet — think not this cruelty — Richard ! thou art the only 
tie of earth between my soul and Heaven — and I will 
ever watch me o'er you — as fortune had it willed — had 
made him who gave you life — but we are near in blood, 
this hand bestowed your mother on your father — she was 
my sister full in love — though not in blood, we had two 
sires. 

Richard. I knew by my fond love — your more than 
father's love and care for me that this was so — oh ! my 
dear Walkelyn, will this mystery that hangs around my 
name ever permit your son to pay one fibre of the robe 
of gratitude, in which you've clothed his heart ? but tell 
me ! tell me who is he who thus holds these poor limbs 
in bondage — this heart in darkness ? — the soul is free- 
born J — it hath wings. 



THE LAST OF TIE PLANTAGENETS. 25 

Walkelyn. It hath — and should misfortune ever 
overtake my son and Walkelyn not be near — then let 
those wings seek his true heart once more, and in the 
peaceful light of his poor dwelling forget it ever knew 
another home. 

Richard. Father ! what mean you ? what mystery new 
awaits me ? — none, none so sad, I trust, as that which parts 
us — parts us ! — all, all is parting, for the wretched youth 
without a name but Richard — Mother, Bridget, Sire, 
Walkelyn, all, ring in my ear that knell ! 

Walkelyn. My son, you have one friend who never 
will forsake you- — within whose bosom the ties and 
thoughts of earth are lost in the effulgence of his glory 
and his love ! 

Richard. Forgive me, father, and pity my sad state. 

Walkelyn. W 7 ithin these papers is contained your 
birth, your name, your fair estates — each duly stated and 
made firm in law ; I am to keep them until your guar- 
dian claims them, or delegates you to receive them — to- 
morrow's dawn must find you on your way to him, and I 
shall follow on your steps, dear son. 

Richard. My soul is all in tumult — fear, hope, joy, 
sorrow, fill it by turns, dear Walkelyn ! 

Walkelyn. God's will be done — but hope on still, 
my son ! the dove still sanctifies just hopes. 

Richard. Lead me as you will, dear father. 

Walkelyn. Let us unto the altar, and seek our Patron 
Mother's ear — pour forth our prayers and humble sense 
of our unworthiness of blessings past and those to come ! 
[Exit Walkelyn and Richard. 



26 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

SCENE SECOND HOSTEL OF " LE BLANC SANGLIER." 

Soldiers without — [singing) — they knock at the door. 

Within, within the " White Boar's" head, 

Good host, come now appear, 
We're faint and worn, our comrade dead, 

Open ! and give us cheer. 

[Host singing within. 
What knaves are ye that come so bold 

To break a good man's rest ? 
My bread is stale, my bacon old, 

My ale, none of the best. 

[Soldiers singing without. 
We know it, good old Jankin Stoup, 

Have money to buy better — 
Come, help our dead man off the Crup ; 

Your dog may have him, let her — 

[Jankin singing within. 
Away ! away, ye foreign rogues — 

I guess you by your lingo — 
And by the White Boar's sharp nailed brogues, 

He, he shall mix your stingo. 

Soldiers break in the windows — Jankin Stoup comes forward 
with his household, peasants, <5$c. — a fight ensues — they 
heat off the intruders. 

Jankin. A pretty doing, truly ; these knaves are, no 
c'oubt, for this French Prince, come to rule old England 
— but never shall he put his saucy Rose upon the cheek 
of one that's true to England and King Richard — " Le 
Blanc Sanglier" Let's in and finish supper. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 27 

Jankins enters with the others [singing.) 

My bread is fresh, my bacon prime, 
My ale is of the best. 

SCENE THIRD THE PALACE (NIGHT.) 

King Richard at a table sealing papers — {a sword on it.) 

King. These for my son — ah ! a tear ? I never 
wept but once — 'twas when his mother left me for her 
home in Heaven ! as say the priests — Eugenio ! 

Enter Page. 

Who called my name but now 1 

Page. I nothing heard, or 'twas, perhaps, the Guard 
exchanging Countersigns, that named my Liege. 

King. True, true ; what is your age, Eugenio ? 

Eugenio. Near seventeen years, my Liege. 

King. That is a tender age to meet the world and all 
its wickedness ; here, take this purse, and go to rest 
again. 

[Exit Page. 

'Tis strange that I who never bent to man, should now 
all trembling shrink within myself, and superstition chain 
me in her grasp. [King starts.'] Ha! Richard! again, 
Clara ! my only love ! and saint to whom I've prayed, 
whose accenls charmed my ear, and stayed my hand from 
crime, what would'st thou 1 

[Noise is heard of steps approaching. 
3 



28 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

King. (Seizing his sword.) Richmond! hold! for 
your life ! 

Enter De Mountford. 

Ha ! De Mountford ; you've brought the boy ? 

De Mountford. He is without. 

King. Leave us, De Mountford, till I summon you. 

[De Mountford retires. 

Come hither, boy. 
[Richard advances — King takes \is hand and surveys him 



King. You're very tall for seventeen — I must no 
longer call you boy ; I reckon, gentle Friar, you wot far 
more of Beads than Swords ? 

Richard. I do, most noble sir. 

King. (Starts.) Her very voice, her soft blue eye, 
her noble brow, and form of symmetry, he is all hers— 
who is your father, youth ? Right proud he sure must be 
of such a son. 

Richard. "Walkelyn has promised oft to tell me of my 
father, but has not given as yet such joy to my poor heart. 
But do you, noble sir — ah, do you know ? 

King. How should I ? Know you who I am 1 

[Richard /#£/,? at the King's feet. 

Richard. You are a King ! 

King. Sweet youth, why think you so ? 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 29 

Richard. Oh ! such a majesty is yours — your eyes of 
fire, your words of power, your bearing ^all unlike to that 
which I have seen. 

King. Why, dearest youth, men do not view me w T ith 
your flattering eyes — they call me " Crook-Back." 

Richard. [Starts from his knees.) Are you then 
Richard 1 

King. Richard ; and you were named from me. 

Richard. You are the warrior then — my memory 
gives with that bright angel in my fadeless dream — who, 
who was she ? 

King. [Passing his hand across his eyes.) An an- 
gel! " 

Richard. [Greatly confused and distressed.) Will 
you not deign, King Richard, to tell me of my father ? — 
you know not what deep grief it is to own no name — to 
never know a father's love. 

King, [Greatly moved and aside.) I must not yield 
compliance to this fond request — and yet my heart is 
on my tongue — but knowledge at this time of who he 
is, might peril the dear youth. 

Richard. My King, you do not answer me. 

King. I cannot now. 

Richard. That now 's the demon that has ever crossed 
my path to hope and joy. 

King. The future — then we well may hope will bring 
an angel to exorcise the bad one — shall it be, Bridget 1 

Richard. Bridget ! oh ! where is she ? 

King. I cannot answer now — but well I know that 
love she you as well as woman e'er loved man, she loves 
not half as w T ell as she who gave you birth loved your 
fond sire, 



30 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Richard. Thus, will I love him too ! 

King. You will, by her pure soul in Heaven ? 

Richard. I will — 

King. Well ! well ! the oath 's in Heaven ! — here, 
take this ring, a secret spring touched thus, will tell the 
names of both your parents, — but on the penalty of his 
displeasure ope it not, until King Richard is no more — or 
opes it for you — these papers, Walkelyn is to keep for 
you — this purse is yours to use at will — my time is not 
my own — we now must part — to meet, I trust, with him 
who calls you son— he who would die for you. De 
Mountford ! 

[Enter De Mountford. 

See that my strict commands about this youth are all 
obeyed. Farewell, sw T eet youth. 

[Richard falls at the King's feet. 

Richard. You are so kind in words, my King, and 
move my heart so strangely, I would pray you let me 
stay, and live and die for you. 

King. It may not be — farewell, farewell ! 

[Exeunt Richar > and De Mountford. 

King. For love, for hate, a kingdom, life, I'll fight, 

And all their trumpet-tongues proclaim my right. 

[Exit King. 



SCENE FOURTH. 

Queen Elizabeth and Abbot of Bermundsey. 

Queen. The boy must be disposed of; that saucy 
message from the Lady Bride, conveyed to me by our fair 
Queen to be, has sealed his fate, braved by my children i 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 31 

they taunt me that their father gave a throne to me ; 
can I do less in fond return than make Elizabeth a 
Queen on earth, and Bridget a sweet Queen of Heaven 1 

Abbot. Surely not, daughter. 

Queen. Besides, good father, 'tis a work of con- 
science with these children that so love it seems ; my 
beautiful but faithless Edward praised too often and too 
much the charms of Clara, the mother of this Richard ; 
she was my maid of Honor, in honor wished I that she 
should remain — thus I caused that poppies sweet should 
breathe around her couch. Richard, I deem, is Edward's 
son — the Crook Back was deceived. 

Abbot. Believing thus, 'twas strange you suffered 
Richard such long time to dwell within the palace. 

Queen. I knew not when she died, Clara was 
Gloster's wife. I kept the boy with show of kindness 
until such time as memory of her sudden death had pass- 
ed — I feared the Duke's quick eye should fall on me — 
and Walkelyn ever watched me. 

Abbot. This story 's very old to me— 

Queen. And so is this boy Richard unto me : put 
him to sleep with his sweet mother. Father, how could 
you be so careless as to let these children meet 
again ? 

Abbot. I was not with her, and gave strict charge the 
Lady Bride should go not from her convent ; Walkelyn 
contrived it all, no doubt. 

Queen. Let the boy sleep. 

Abbot. The Lady Bride is mine; Richmond's sure 
pledge, my house shall stand, if every other falls, your 
diamond cross shall hang upon the blessed Mary's bo- 
som : the thousand pieces of good gold are mine ? 
3* 



32 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Queen. All, all are yours when the boy sleeps. 

Mbot. Farewell, dear daughter, [speaking very loud) 
your pious offering will blessings win for you from many, 
grateful hearts. Benedicite ! 



Queen. Richard, farewell ! 



[Exit. 
[Exit. 



SCENE FIFTH. 
A Street — Enter Sybil, chanting. 

Who'll give the Sybil ear 1 

The spell is on her eye, 
Hearts of hope draw near, 

She reads your destiny. 
Soon the rose with blushing cheek, 

[Enter Soldiers of Richmond. 
Soldiers. 

Red as any beet, 
Sibyl 

Shall our gentle Princess greet. 

[Enter Soldiers of Richard. 

Soldiers. See it beneath our feet — out, out upon thee, 
Hag! 

[Richard's Soldiers heat off the Sibyl — Richmond's Sol- 
diers pursue them. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 33 

SCENE SIXTH A HALL OF STATE. 

Duke of Norfolk, Earl Surrey, St. Leger, Pursuivant 
at Arms. 

Norfolk. So short a time in England, yet his follow- 
ers increased from paltry hundreds to thousands, who 
now give heart and hand for Harry Richmond as its King 
to be: he without the shadow of aright ! What is the 
heart of man that it seeks ever something new, although 
not knowing if the novelty bring not more wo than the 
old garment cast aside 1 — because, forsooth, 'tis old ! I 
fear me greatly in the coming struggle the King" will 
fail ; for I have marked the spirit sinks e'en with the 
strongest; if an undaunted face bearing an impress on it 
of success in future, looks on its opponent, though proud 
and bold from its successes past ; but I, will never fail, 
King Richard — what say you, Surrey ? 

Surrey. I fear and hope, yet pant for that dear field 
of Bosworth, where our good King should crush this bold 
Lancastrian, that comes not only for a crown, but the 
most fair and sweet of England's flowers — Elizabeth. 
Could I but have the boon to break my virgin lance 
within his vain ambitious heart — what say you, Herald 
at Arms ? 

St. Leger. I trust to herald victory ; but as your no- 
ble sire has said, appearances are much against the 
chance of winning. 

Norfolk. Let us arouse the people once again. 
Surrey, go you among the fairer portion of our race, for 
often woman's sweet and persuasive eloquence leads with 
silken chain her sterner father, husband, brother, lover. 



34 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Surrey. Dear father, you forget that Richmond is 
both young, and form and feature favored ; he has great 
skill in music j plays the Troubadour, not only to the 
Princess, but also 'twixt the acts, no doubt, to other 
maidens too ; Richard, not young, nor over -laden with 
the gifts of beauty, will hardly bear comparison in their 
sweet eyes — now filled with bridal favors, stars, what 
not, among the idle gossip that I hear, is, that red Roses 
now are all the vogue. 

And every damsel has been heard to say, 
Richmond is hid within my sweet bouquet. 

Norfolk. Go to, madcap — what- says " Geraldine ?" 
but poesy must bend awhile to steel ; let us away, and 
strive against this Tudor race that comes upon us with 
the artifice, not of old Owen, but studied long in foreign, 
wily courts. 

Surrey. Long live King Richard ! 

St. Leger. Long live King Richard ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE SEVENTH PRINCESS ELIZABETH READING. 

Enter Queen and a Gentleman. 

Queen. Elizabeth, this artist craves your ear unto 
some music. 

[Exit. 

Elizabeth. I pray, good sir, it be a mournful theme, 
for I am very sad. 

Artist. Love's theme should not be sad, and she 
whose worth and beauty waken it at will, may give my 
harp its tone. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 35 

Elizabeth. Sir, I'm the Princess of this realm, whose 
ear cannot receive such bold address. 

[Artist throws off a cloak and other disguise and shews a 
royal dress and order — he falls at the Princess' feel.] 

Elizabeth. Who are you, sir ? I pray you rise. 

Artist. Henry. 

Elizabeth. Of Lancaster 1 

Richmond. I am — and minstrel knight ; he who 
now comes with heart and hand to merry England ! 
once, but now sunk deep in wo by Richard's bloody 
hand, to aid its worthy citizens to once more claim the 
rights of men — he who would lay his heart at its fair 
Princess' feet. 

Elizabeth. Why, she is of the house of him your 
hand would crush — how ! shall I prove you love, and 
hate its Rose ? 

Richmond. Oh ! fair Elizabeth, name not yourself 
in one breath with the monster who now fills the throne. 

Elizabeth. He is my uncle. 

Richmond. Who murdered those most near to you ? 

Elizabeth. He has been ever kind to me, and murder 
is a crime this history sets forth that Princes never can 
commit, or holy monks soon shrive them fi om. 

Richmond. Then let me as a holy monk now shrive 
your soul, for there is murder in your eyes. 

Elizabeth. I think my uncle is unstained with much 
of that imputed to him ; he is ambitious, and well may 
he beware, who takes the key ambition to his heart. 

Richmond. Your uncle seeks your hand. 

Elizabeth. He never told me so — but, Henry Rich- 
mond, we but prate — should you be King of England — 



36 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Richmond. {Quickly.) Your Henry Seventh 1 
Elizabeth. Make me staid promise on this hand, 

which then is yours — to set the Lady Bride, my sister, 

free from convent thrall — with liberty to wed both when 

and whom she would. 

Richmond. I swear ! how sweet a bond is here, love ! 

twining love ! [He kisses the Princess' hand.] 

Enter Queen . 

Queen. Henry, you must away ; time quite enough 
you've had to sail to Cyprus, and steal the Boy Love. 

Richmond. But gracious Lady ! how short — how 
very short the time appeared upon my journey back — 
thought not your Edward so 1 

Queen. Tut, tut, I have forgot ! away ! 

Richmond. Fair Princess ! Richmond's heart is in 
your hands. [Kisses her hand.] Lady Queen ! my 
duty to you is my pleasure. 

[Kisses Queen's hand and Exit. 

Queen. 'Twas very hard, no doubt, for you to say a 
yes, unto such gallant, handsome gentleman as Henry 
Richmond — 

Elizabeth. {Sighing.) Yes, has been said too often 
— permit me seek the Lady Bride. 

Queen. Pll seek her, too, and hear what now she 
thinks of me, from her own sweet, duteous lips. {Ironi- 
cally.) 

[Exeunt. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 37 

SCENE EIGHTH— MONASTERY OF BERMONDSEY. 
Abbot in his cell at prayer. 

Abbot (Rising.) I once was innocent— these hands 
now dyed in guilt, white, white in purity as is the snow 
drift, ere the step of man leaves its dark foot-print on it 
-yes, I was innocent— till man unfolded his vile heart 
unto my view-then dupe or villain I was forced to be- 
I would not be the first, and (groaning) I chose the vil- 
lain's part. 

[Enter Walkelyn. 

Walkelyn. Yes, wretched man-and tried to make 
all others like yourself— where is my child ? 

Abbot. Ha ! Roger, welcome to my poor house ! 

Walkelyn. Where is my child ? 

Abbot. Richard, the boy you mean ? 

Walkelyn. My Clara's son. 

Mot. The Clara that I loved-she whose sweet 
smile had made me all the saint I fain would seem- 
whose loss made me the fiend I am-and you did this- 
— your pride gave her to Richard— me to despair » 

Walkelyn- Ambrose ! well you know she loved 
Prince Richard— ere you made pretension to her hand- 
well you know King Edward wooed her with unholv 
thought. J 

Abbot. Yet he was father to this boy you call your 
son — J 

Walkelyn. What wretch has conjured up this lie 1 
Abbot. The Lady Queen. 



38 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Walkelyn. Ambrose, beware ! my sister's death was 
by your hand. 

Abbot. No ! by the hell that opens for my crimes — 
no ! by the mercy of my God ! I could not kill ; what I 
had loved so much ! 

Walkelyn. And yet you would her son 1 

Abbot. (Evasively.) I thought you were all in your 
books, good Roger Walkelyn, and meddled not with 
worldly things— why kept you not this sprig of royalty 
close at them too — why did you suffer him to meet the 
Lady Bride, and whisper love unto her ear? she the 
bride of Heaven. 

Walkelyn. They met by accident— I nothing know 
more than this, and why did you, washing them not to 
meet, suffer the Lady Bride to bend her steps unto the 
Isle of Ely ? 

Abbot. This, too, was accident — her feeble health re- 
quired long pauses and much rest upon the tour — a sud- 
den, fearful change in it alarmed her escort — and though 
all against my order strict, they chose St. Mary's neigh- 
borhood for harbor sweet and sure. {Ironically.) 

Walkelyn. And she has it now — far, far from this. 

Abbot. How ? 

Walkelyn. Where is Prince Richard ? 

Abbot. I know not ! 

Walkelyn. Ambrose, you cannot deceive me; the King 
and I know well that, by the Queen's command, you've 
taken him from where we thought he was bestowed in 
sa f e ty — the Lady Bride has fled — and she shall never be 
within these walls again until you give his son unto his 
arms, both says King Richard and his uncle Walkelyn. 
Ah ! my dear child, perhaps ev'n now you sleep in death. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 39 

Abbot. I know not of him — the Lady Bride fled ! 
Wretch ! you have ruined me ! 

[Exit. 
Walkelyn. As you have countless ones — wicked, 
wicked man. 

[Exit. 



40 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 



ACT III— Scene i. 



Pembroke Hall — Richard confined as in a prison. 

Richard. Ah ! wo is me ! debarred the light of day, 
almost the face of man, who am I ? what the conse- 
quence attached to my poor lot in life, that thus I'm hunt- 
ed like a stricken deer? (Richard takes a white rose 
from his bosom.) All that Do Mountford would reveal 
to me in answer to my pressing questions after that 
w T ond'rous interview I had with my dear King, was— 
" Take this flower — it holds thy destiny — and if it rear 
its head upon the field of battle near at hand — King 
Richard will tell better than I may all you wish to know. 
Farewell ! small chance there is we ever meet again — 
De Mountford fights with heart and hand, and always for 
his King." Dear Walkelyn, where is thy bosom to 
whose gentle pulse you bade me ever fly — should wo or 
pain cross future palhs of life — I am a prisoner — the 
purse remains my Sovereign gave — but how or where to 
use it I know not — the Ring might tell that he forbade 
that I should open. (Richard takes up a lamp and exa- 
mines the ring.) Could I be justified now in my great 
distress — to disobey my King — nay, more, to break my 
honor's promise ? no ! — dear Bridget ! could I but 
see thee once again, all would be light within my heart, 
at least — but thou a prisoner, too ! no hope is left for 
me ! 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 41 

Enter Pembroke. 

Pembroke. Be comforted, poor youth ! your thoughts 
are -all too sad ; I trust the remedies applied have sooth- 
ed your wounds ; the awkward knaves who brought you 
here were told to use no violence. 

Richard. Why, am I here? 

Pembroke. (Evasively.) Sweet youth, had you but 
been content to rest with good old Jankin Stoup — told 
all your beads and gone to sleep instead of peeping 
through the window, you had not been here. 

Richard. I pray you suffer me to do the same once 
more, I'm fond of air. 

Pembroke. (Raises the window-sash.) Now you 
have air — I pray you take some food — long hours you've 
fasted — and taste this wine ; 'twill cheer your heart. 

Richard. My lip 's a virgin all as yet to wine — but 
I've a thirst upon it — its name is liberty — see you this 
gold — I never saw so much the ten years that I dwelt 
within St. Mary's — take it and make me free. 

Pembroke. I'm rich enough to give to you, but can- 
not give you freedom. 

Richard. The laws of England still protect her sons ; 
Her King is anxious for my welfare. 

Pembroke. King Richard knows no law — thus you 
are in this prison, and will not leave it till his head is 
low. 

Richard. You are an aged man — fear you not then 
the King of kings and retribution ? 

Pembroke. I do, and for his sake I punish ; and^ 
poor child, I pity you. 



42 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Richard. My God ! hive mercy on me ! (Richard 
wrings his hands in agony, and in doing so his ring 
opens, and reveals the names of Richard Planta genet 
and Clara Howard — he remains gazing on the ring in 
astonishment.) 

Pembroke. Your mind seems quite unsettled, youth, 
pray try to rest ; 'tis long past midnight. (Pembroke 
goes to the window to close it, and receives a discharge of 
powder in his face.) 

[Scene closes and re-opens to a wood — Soldiers around. 



SCENE SECOND RICHARD AND JANKIN STOUP. 

Richard. My good, good Jankin, how shall I thank 
you for my freedom 1 

Jankin. I only did my duty ; hut now I have you, 
my young master, you'll not escape me soon again ; I 
swore to set you free by my good crest, Le Blanc Sang- 
lier ; and if you visit my poor Hostel once again, I hope 
you'll wear that crest upon your brow. But come, we 
are too near old Pembroke and his prison. 

Richard. Where do you lead me, Jankin 1 

Jankin. Ha ! ha ! ha ! where 1 you will soon see. 

Richard. You are my guardian an^el ! I follow 
w r heresoe'er you lead. 

[Exeunt Richard, Jankin, Soldiers. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 43 

SCENE THIRD QUEEN AND ABBOT OF BERMONDSEY. 

Queen. Liar and villain ! think you your plea of ignor- 
ance, how Bridget was conveyed from out the convent, 
Richard escaped his Prison, can avail with me? (The 
Queen goes to the Abbot and shakes him furiously.) No ! 
no ! your head shall answer this, when Richmond's King, 
your Monastery and its Abbot ; then will be a tale forgot 
as soon as told. 

Abbot. I swear I know not how these evils came 
upon us ; I neither rest, nor eat, waiting upon your 
pleasure as I ever w T aited ; and still do wait. 

Queen. You swear ! by what, I pray ? 

Abbot. By murdered Clara's soul, and Richard's 
vengeance ! Walkelyn has charged me with the murder, 
and if you threaten, I will reveal. 

Queen. You dare not ; remember Ambrose ! — a truce 
with this child's talk — why did you leave this Richard 
to his father's spies, when Richmond had so nicely caged 
him 1 — why were not you as ready as they were, with 
purpose, and with means 1 

Abbot. Murder is not as readily achieved as bondage 
— and relief from bondage — when chains or freedom 's in 
the hands of Kings. 

Queen. The boy must die — Bridget be soon within 
her convent — or, brother, for the love and service that I 
owe you, your skull shall grace my oratory. 

Abbot. And it shall whisper in your ear through time, 
and through eternity, Ambrose — " Dip your finger into 
water, and cool my tongue, for I'm tormented in this 
flame !" 

Queen. Out! out upon thee! bring me the boy's 



44 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

corse, then, dear Ambrose, and you shall live in peace — - 
what peace you may — I would not seek his life hut that I 
deem him Edward's son. 

Jlbbot. That lie, you forged, you never yet believed. 

Queen. I think him Edward's son ; and I'm not vile 
enough to let him wed his sister. 

Abbot. Hug this last virtue to your heart ; mercy, 
perhaps, will let it plead in Heaven ! 

Queen. The boy shall die ? 

Abbot. He shall if I may cause his death ; Bridget is 
mine, if once more in her convent 1 

Queen. She is. 

Abbot. Now we are ripe for hell ! 

Queen. The devil and his daughter joined ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE FOURTH THE PALACE. 

Richard and the Lady Bride. 

Lady Bride. Beloved ! do not hope ; my life is weaning 
fast ! too much of trial have I had ; and it has pressed 
upon a frame, by nature all too frail : when they first 
took }Ou from me, I pined, as dove pines for its mate ; 
and then I hoped ! and watched each day its sky to see 
that mate return : that sky was clouded with a loveless 
mother's will, that doomed me to a convent's grave — its 
Abbot's whispers, dark and drear, both brought despair. 

Richard. All that is passed, dear Bridget ! King 
Richard sanctions our fond love : within the coming 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 45 

strife he will prevail, and we be free to love, as ever 
we have loved — life is yet strong within you — not life 
alone, but love, not love alone, but hope — let this sweet 
Rose of York twin to my Bridget — revive each sinking 
nerve — oft when imprisoned by bad Richmond, its 
breath hath spoken hope to me — I called it Bridget — its 
breath sustained good Jankin Stoup to peril all to give 
me freedom — its breath sustained dear Walkelyn ten 
long- years in rearing me through fear and toil — its 
breath sustains proud, worthy hearts within the land — > 
and will dear Bridget forget of all its breath is hers ? 

Bridget. I feel that I too soon for love must die. 
Richard, beloved, 'tis well, for living without thy love 
is death — and we can never wed ! 

Richard. Not wed, Bridget ? 

Bridget. Your father — is — King Richard ! 

Richard. Bridget ! 

Bridget. He made me fatherless. (Bridget 

falls, fainting^ in Richard's arms.) 

Enter Walkelyn. 

Walkelyn. My children ! 

Richard. Father, you've taught me there's a God of 
mercy, and of vengeance — which does it speak for me, 
the murderer's son ? 

Walkelyn. Mercy for him! and you ! 

[Curtain falls on the scene. 



46 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 



SCENE FIFTH STREET IN LONDON. 

Enter Pembroke, Oxford, the Stanleys, Brandon, Bray, 
Citizens, Soldiers. 

Pembroke. Are ye men, and still uphold the tyrant, 
Richard ? — his crimes long passed — somewhat forgot — 
were not enough — listen, my friends, he now proclaims 
his son as his successor, Richard Fourth— will ye bear 
this 1 (Murmur of voices is heard.) 

Citizens. No, no ! 

Pembroke. Raise then your voices for King Henry. 

Citizens. Long live Henry Seventh ! 

Soldiers. Down with the tyrant, Richard ! 

Pembroke. Long live King Henry Seventh ! 

[Exeunt Pembroke, Sfc, tyc. 



SCENE SIXTH " BOW BRIDGE" AND " DICKON'S NOOK." 

ii Where King Richard addressed his army the eve before 
the battle of Bosworth Field." Citizens — soldiers. 

King. My friends ! brave soldiers ! who am I ? 

[All shout, long live King Richard! 
King. Give me the crown. 

[ The crown is handed him — King puts it on. 
King. " Dieu ! et mon Droit !" who holds the trait- 
or's name within this proud array 1 

[All shout, long live King Richard. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 47 

King. {Holding up a branch of white roses.) Rich- 
ard, my son ; and Fourth of England ! 

[Voices are heard faintly crying, long live Richard Fourth! 

King. To victory or death ! down with the Rose of 
Lancaster. 

[King, Soldiers, Citizens, and Rabble pass off, and the 
Sibyl appears on the bridge, chanting. 

Sibyl. " A golden angel now to bless thy march." 

Pass on, pass on with thy gallant train, 

Thy coin is naught to me — 
To-morrow will this " Stone" remain 

Alone that train to see. 
That train will be an uncrowned King, 

A corse that spurned but now — 
The Sibyl's curse ! ye spirits bring, 

To lay the Scorner low. 
Away, away with thy pageantry ! 
" The Rose of York" now dies with thee. 

[Exit Sibyl. 

Enter Richard. 

Richard. Alas ! my sire! the Sibyl's eye, I fear, sees 
truth ; few were the voices raised for thy poor son. 

Enter Abbot of Bermondsey. 

Abbot. Aye ! few indeed ! and fewer still thou'lt have 
in future. {Attempts to stab Richard.) 



48 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

Richard. Ha ! vile impostor of the Cross you wear — 
thou who hast brought my Bridget near to death — thou 
who it is supposed wrought my dear mother's sleep — 
her sleep eternal. (Richard obtains the Abbot's dag- 
ger.) 

Abbot. You're very strong for one so young. 

Richard. Virtue gives strength unto the feeble — make 
thy peace with Heaven, bad man, — Walkelyn has told 
me all — thy moments now of life are few — may God 
have mercy on thy soul, and mine ! (Richard stabs the 
Abbot.) 

Abbot. I did not kill your mother. 

Richard. Was it the Queen, then 1 

Abbot. {Faintly.) The Queen ! — Clara— plead — 
for — me — my God— have — mercy ! {Dies.) 

Richard. " Thou shalt not kill" — where am I — am I 
a murderer, too 1 Walkelyn ! Bridget ! 

[Richard rushes out. 



SCENE SEVENTH PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 

Trumpets sound without. 

Elizabeth. (Shuddering.) Ah ! crowned heads, and 
hearts that woo those crowns — w T ould ye but pause be- 
fore ye give the trumpet breath — how much of wo were 
spared to countless ones, who echo not its tone — nor 
win its gifts — dear Bridget ! what will be thy fate within 
to-morrow's hour ? and thou art ill and I forbid to see 
thee. But I'm the daughter of a King ! a line of Kings ! 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 49 

Shame ! on my coward heart, that thrills not to the peal 
of victory ! it does ! when victory is on the shield of 
right — the rights of man ! My uncle, if not the murder- 
er of my House, has set those rights at naught. God's 
hand is in his fall, and I should say, Amen ! 

[Noise is heard without — voices cry, To the Tower with the 
Lady Queen.] 

Enter Queen Elizabeth. 

Queen. Save me, Elizabeth ! 

[Enter Officers o/Mustice, Soldiers and Attendants.] 

Officer. " Elizabeth ! late Queen of England, and 
wife of Edward Fourth, we arrest you in the name of 
Richard Third of England, for murder of his wife, Clara 
Howard, with order that you be confined within the Tow- 
er, until such time as England's laws shall give you 
trial." 

[Queen Elizabeth faints.] 

Princess Elizabeth. This charge, good sirs, is sudden 
and most strange. 

Officers. But not less true, most noble lady. {They 
raise the Queen.) 

Princess. 1 pray you, force not the Queen away ! 
to-morrow I may be your Queen ; you owe my wish 
some duty. 

Soldiers. None ! we are for Richard and his son. 
{They seize the Queen and force her out. Rabble 
shout," To the Tower, to the Tower." Elizabeth sinks 
into the arms of her Attendants.) 

[Scene closes. 



50 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

SCENE EIGHTH A CAMP IN THE DISTANCE. 

Enter Prince Richard. 

Richard. King Richard has forbidden me to hazard 
these poor limbs within the coming struggle ; but it 
shall see me at his side ; deemed he Plantagenet was not 
within my veins ? he, the proud Tree that gave those 
veins and limbs! (Trumpet sounds.) Bridget! thou 
nearest not that sound — beloved ! the Bride of Heaven ! 
— what has thy Richard now to lose 1 Welcome ! sweet 
Death ! 

{Exit. 

[Voices shout, " Down with the Rose of York." 

Enter De Mountford and Soldiers. 

Be Mountford. A reinforcement ! — the King's o'er- 
powered — he's fought as if the fiends and angels tracked 
his way. 

[They pass off. 

Enter King and Brandon — [they fight.) 

King. Go ! bear thy standard to the King of kings ! 

[Brandon falls. 

Enter Prince Richard. 

King. My son ! away ! away ! 

[Shout without — " Up with the Rose of Lancaster" — 
King rushes out — Richard follows — Shouts heard with- 
out, " Long live Henry Seventh — Band play a Tri- 
umphal March.] 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 5 X 

Enter Richmond. 

Richmond. The day is ours! thanks, my faithful 
friends ! the Tyrant is no more— give his foul corse unto 
the dogs. 

Enter Bray, with the Crown — he places it on Richmond 

All shout, " Long live Henry Seventh." 

Enter De Mountford and Soldiers with the corse of 
Prince Richard on a bier. 

King Henry. Ah ! the poor youth is gone, then ! 
De Mountford. Aye, aye ; a ball has done its work. 

Enter Duke ^/Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, St. Leger— 
they surround the bier of Richard. 

Duke of Norfolk. Farewell ! the last of the Planta- 
genets ! 

De Mountford. Farewell ! Long live Henry Sev- 
enth ! 

[Scene closes. 



52 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 



SCENE NINTH A CONVENT. 

The Corse of Bridget on a Bier — A Wreath of White 
Roses is suspended over, and a Crown upon it — Ta- 
pers are burning around it — Princess Elizabeth and 
Prior Walkelyn are kneeling on either side the Bier — 
Soft Music is heard, and a Choir of Nuns chant the fol- 
lowing Requiem: 

REQUIEM. 

Lady Bride ! thy course is run — 

White Rose ! of thy House farewell ! 
Thou art with the Virgin's Son — 

We, her maidens, chant thy knell. 
Life is but a step to Heaven — 

If the heart its portal make — 
Jesu ! to thy arms is given 

Virtue's Pearl — the offering take. 
Lady Bride ! thy course is run — 

White Rose ! of thy House farewell ! 
Thou art with the Virgin's Son — 

We, her maidens, chant thy knell. 

[ Curtain falls. 



THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 53 



EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 

Our Drama 's o'er, and I must now appear, 
To ask its hearers for their sigh and tear. 
A Princess late — a wond'rous Queen to be — 
I wonder if one ear will list to me. 

Plain who has tried to say 

The many words [her part] within this Play ? 
Grace for its Author ! she is nervous quite 
About your Verdict this her Trial night. 
Nonsense ! what is one Play in this prolific Land, 
That steams Books from the Head unto the Hand, 
In quicker time than took our Sires to go 
From" Flattenbarrack Hill"* to "Chatham Row."f 
And yet these Writers think their wretched brains, 
Diamonds, and Pearls, and golden scattered grains. 
Think ye so too % then show your generosity — 
And say " Plantagenet is worth some Pence to see." 
Our Author loves old England for its lore — 
Its Knight [with Lance in rest] its Troubadour — 
Its ivied Towers — " that one" Tradition says, 
In which the " British VirgiP'J sang his Lays — 

* " Flattenbarrack Hill," (Dutch) now Exchange street. 

f " Chatham Row," the location of the Park Theatre. 

J "The Biitish Virgil/' a genealogical tree in the author's family 
— traces a descent from the Poet Dryden, who married Lady Eliza- 
beth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Berkshire. 



54 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. 

" And that dark Pile,"* where Pride and Memory keep 
Their Vigil round the urns of those who sleep — 
Poor dust with dust, (yet 'tis Ambition fair, 
For Mind to wish to hang its Garland there.) 
She loves old England — but she loves far better 
Her native land ! would sing about it — let her ! 
There, all are Queens Victoria ! each Baby — 
A President to be ! peut-etre — or may-be. 
Crowns are fine things ! they are of various kind — 
Within your hands shall one our Author find 1 

* " And that dark pile," (Westminster Abbey.) John Plinderhath, 
a relative of the author, has a monument in Westminster Abbey* 
He served in the Peninsular War, under the Duke of Wellington — 
was killed and buried at "Coimbra," Spain. 



55 



JOURNAL, 

Of the celebrated Elizabeth Woodville, who first married John 
Earl Grey, and afterwards Edward Fourth of England. It 
was found in Drummond Castle. 

Monday morning. Rose at four o'clock, and helped Cathe- 
rine to milk the cows. Rachel, the other dairy maid, having 
scalded her hand, made a poultice for Rachel, and gave Robin a 
farthing to get her something comfortable from the apothecary. 

Six o'clock. The beef too much boiled, and the ale a little of 
the sourest. 

Memorandum. Talk to the cook about the first, and mend 
the other myself, by tapping a new barrel. 

Seven o'clock. Went to walk with my lady mother in the 
Park. Fed twenty-five men and women — chid Roger for ex- 
pressing ill-will at attending me with broken meat. 

Eight o'clock. Went into the paddock behind the house with 
my maid Dorothy — caught Thump, the little pony, myself, and 
rode a matter of six miles, without saddle or bridle. 

Ten o'clock. Went to dinner — John Grey, a most comely 
youth — but what is that to me ? — a virtuous maiden should be 
entirely under the direction of her parents. John Grey eat but 
little, and stole a great many under glances at me — said a woman 
could not be handsome who was not good-tempered. I hope my 
temper is not intolerable — no one finds fault with it but Roger, 
and he is the most disorderly serving man in the house. John 
Grey likes white teeth — my teeth are a pretty good color — and 
my hair as black as jet. John Grey, if I mistake not, is of the 
same opinion. 



56 

Eleven o'clock. The company desirous of walking in the 
fields after dinner. John Grey would lift me over all the stiles, 
and twice squeezed my hand. I have no affection for John Grey, 
but he plays as well at Prison Bars as any of the country gentry. 

Four o'clock. Went to prayers. 

Six o'clock. Fed pigs and poultry. Supper delayed till seven 
o'clock. 

Nine o'clock. Company sleepy — these late hours disagreea- 
ble. Went to bed, and dreamed of John Grey. 



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